


get a taste of american royalty

by halcyonlight



Category: RWBY
Genre: F/F, a very happy 6/9 day to you all!, blake is the president's daughter AU, possibly to be continued, yes that's what we're calling it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-23 19:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19157500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcyonlight/pseuds/halcyonlight
Summary: It's been years since First Daughter Blake Belladonna has gotten to do what she wanted. Then she meets Yang, a server at one of Washington DC's elite restaurants, and everything changes.akapolitical au with lots of sex





	get a taste of american royalty

**Author's Note:**

> i really gave 20% of my energy to writing that summary huh
> 
> HAPPY 6/9 DAY! MY FRIENDS AND GIRLFRIEND ROPED ME INTO THIS SOMEHOW! IT'S A MIRACLE I WAS ABLE TO WRITE ANYTHING AT ALL! i will most likely be continuing this because i do have some more stuff that didn't make it into the final draft! there's also a playlist which i will post here soon. xoxo love yall hope you enjoy
> 
> thanks erin twelveclara for help with the title because i was having a mental breakdown, you're a real one and i love u

Fluorescent red letters spelling out _Capitol Psychic_ and too many glasses of Veuve Clicquot.That’s how it all starts.

“I’m boooooored,” Weiss has been whining for the past two hours. After eighteen years of friendship, Blake knows this can’t lead to anything good. She sighs and leans her elbows against a polished wooden counter. A sparkling glass of Brut Cava sits in front of her, untouched.

“What kind of bored is this?” Blake asks. “Is this like, let’s walk over to Daikaya for some ramen, or let’s strip down to our underwear and jump into the Potomac?”

“God, never again.” Weiss shudders, twisting her white-blonde ponytail between two fingers. “My hair never recovered from that river water. Disgusting.”

“So ramen then.”

“I was thinking of something off the beaten path.”

Blake leans back in her chair, eyebrows raised. Her father’s been in the international spotlight for six years now - six _agonizing_ years, six years of security guards tucked in shadowy corners, six years of itineraries and NDAs and etiquette coaching.

She doesn’t leave the beaten path. Ever.

Allegory, a respectable yet trendy cocktail bar downtown, is one of the few places on Blake’s ‘approved’ list. It’s not a list Blake made herself. Coco handled it with the same relentless dedication she applies to everything in Blake’s life since she was a moody teenager dressing in torn jeans. Initially, Coco was hired to smooth out the rough edges, paint her as the perfect First Daughter, but she still sticks around even now that Blake’s twenty-two and out of college. Blake isn’t exactly sure why. She handles herself much better now, and plus, she has Weiss to keep her in check.

“So what’s the plan?” Blake asks, sipping her champagne. Her expectations are on the floor.

“Well.” Weiss leans forward. “Pyrrha was telling me about this incredible psychic she saw last week. And I know, _I know_ …” She holds up a hand because Blake is already spluttering, half-choking on her drink with laughter. “But I swear to god, Blake. Pyrrha says it changed her life.”

“Really,” Blake says dryly. “Well, my god. This can’t wait a moment longer, then.”

“Even if it’s total bullshit…”

“Which it will be.”

“What’s the worst that could happen? We’ll have a fun story to tell. Bring Sun! He should liven things up.”

Blake wrinkles her nose. “I am _definitely_ not going to bring Sun, because then the paparazzi will descend upon us like a biblical plague and I’ll have to explain to Mom why there are pictures of me going to a hole-in-the-wall psychic parlor on Page Six.”

Weiss waves a careless hand.

“Where is this place, anyway?” Blake asks, leaning closer to get a look at her best friend’s phone.

“Over by Georgetown somewhere. I’ll get Pyrrha to send me the full address. Finish that drink and go let your security know, okay?” Weiss’s blue eyes sparkled with an devilish excitement Blake has grown to dread. “This night is gonna change your life.”

Blake rolls her eyes, sliding off her high-back stool, gold and black purse dangling loose from one shoulder. Yatsuhashi, her personal Secret Service agent, has been sitting at the end of the bar this entire time, sunglasses on and arms crossed. 

“We’re going to a psychic,” Blake says to him, half-smiling, anticipating his reaction. Sure enough, he sighs - not heavily enough to betray true annoyance.

“Just get me the address, kid.” Yatsuhashi slides his BlackBerry across the counter; Blake picks it up, smile widening, and lets Weiss type it in. The plan is stupid, sure, but sometimes she thinks she’ll do almost anything to make her best friend happy. They owe it to each other.

*

Ghira Belladonna’s presidential exploratory committee was formed back when Blake was a sophomore in high school, roughly one week after she passed her driver’s test. Weiss had laughed uproariously when she heard, the two of them lounging in Blake’s bedroom, windows flung open to glistening spring air. “If your dad actually runs,” Weiss said. “If he actually _wins_ \- you won’t get to drive until you’re in your twenties. Alexa, play _Ironic_ by Alanis Morissette.”

Blake had scowled as the soft guitar notes filled the room.

Everything clicked into place soon after that: the candidacy announcement just as Blake was going into her junior year and sorting through college brochures. The debates, which she tried to ignore at school, walking through the halls with her dark hair tumbling across her face. It wasn’t that Ghira embarrassed her or anything - he was clearly the best candidate for the job, and she’d think that even if he weren’t her father. But it was _weird_. Kids at her school were used to families with money. If they were like Weiss, the socialite daughter of a senator, they were used to having a _fuckload_ of money. They were used to classmates who had politicians in the family. But a presidential candidate? Everyone looked at Blake differently. Even the teachers.

And then the primaries started, and it became clear how things were going, and Blake flew into a panic. By the time her junior year had ended, Ghira’s nomination was decided. Freedom beckoned. There was just senior year to push through, and then anything. She wanted to go somewhere, anywhere else, but her mother and Weiss intervened. There was _don’t you want to be close to the family, sweetie_ and _I thought you were always interested in politics anyway_ and _what will the public think if the President’s daughter lives across the country?_

“It’s bullshit,” Blake had snarled on the phone to Weiss on election night, curled on a couch in the hotel suite where the family and campaign staffers had gathered to watch the coverage. “I’m seventeen years old and I can’t pick where I want to go to college because some forty-year-old mom in, like, Fuckville, Idaho, wants to see a nuclear family living in a national monument built by slaves.”

“You’ll need to work on that language, First Daughter,” Weiss answered demurely.

*

Weiss’s reading doesn’t go as planned.

She’ll have six children, apparently - she doesn’t want _any_ , which she regularly tells anyone who will listen. She’ll have a successful career as a fashion model. That one makes Blake laugh out loud, then quickly disguise it as a cough. Maria, the ancient psychic poring over creased tarot cards, isn’t fooled. Weiss is getting more annoyed - and, dangerously, more bored - by the second.

Then Blake’s up.

“For you… the Moon,” Maria says, flipping the card over, and Blake’s eyes narrow. It’s almost solid black, a white sliver winking up at her, flanked by dotted stars. “Interesting. Extremely interesting.”

“Is it,” Weiss says flatly. But Blake’s intrigued, resting her elbows on the table.

“What does it mean?”

“Love carried from another lifetime. A _great_ love. Be assured, Miss Belladonna…” Maria adjusts her glasses, shaking a finger at Blake. “I don’t take the cards lightly. This was a great love you’ve known many times before, and you will know them many times again.”

“Is it somebody I know already?” Blake asks with interest. Next to her, Weiss snorts, fidgeting with her Michael Kors purse, ready to leave. 

Maria pauses and thinks hard. The air is thick with incense and patchouli, candle flames bending as they flicker, slanted light. “No,” she says finally. “I don’t think so.”

“How do I find-”

“I’m not entirely sure you will,” Maria interrupts, still pensive. “The Moon can indicate solitude… a departure from this existence alone. Perhaps you will find this person. But it’s not always wise to dwell in the perhaps. Live your life. For you, Miss Belladonna, there should be no shortage of stellar partners. No need to worry.”

“I’m not worried,” Blake says, but when she swallows, her throat feels tight. Her earlier, lighter mood is gone. _A departure from this existence alone_.

*

“Blake, I’m sorry.” Weiss collapses wearily against the leather seat of the Cadillac, blowing her silver-blonde bangs out of her eyes. “That was _not_ a life-changing night. I swear, Pyrrha must have been-”

“No, it’s fine,” Blake interrupts. She chews on her lower lip, thinking. “Actually, I thought it was pretty interesting.”

“She was a fraud. Thank god we barely paid anything. What a waste of time.” 

Weiss is still complaining, but Blake tunes out, pulling up Google on her phone and searching through images of tarot cards. The moon, always the moon. She remembers being a little girl, so many years before any of this happened, staring out the backseat window of the car into the black night. Stars above, glittering. Chasing the moon.

“Do you believe in past lives?” Blake blurts out, cutting through Weiss’s tirade.

She blinks. “Blake, we should really go to some kind of specialist if you’re going to start fixating on this. You know, there are plenty of people in the city who can do regressions and things like that.”

“I didn’t say I was fixating. I just asked if you believed in it.”

Weiss has her phone out now, tapping out a text message. The glow illuminates her face, pearl white. Blake never expected an answer anyway.

*

Two weeks later, Blake has finally forgotten about the flickering neon red letters, the moon card, the look on the psychic’s face. It doesn’t matter. Other things keep her busy. She sorts through grad school applications, tries on dresses at a fitting for a state dinner, lets Weiss talk her into attending a spin class. 

(Yatsuhashi has to stand in the back of the room for that one, motionless, while Katy Perry blares over the stereo speakers. It’s humiliating and Blake vows never to return.)

Everything is the same as always. Everything is dull.

And then it’s Friday night; she’s supposed to meet Weiss and Pyrrha for drinks at Off the Record, one of the few DC bars that was approved for her after she turned twenty-one, mostly because it’s safely tucked away in the lower level of a five-star hotel. They know her here - well, people know her all over the world, obviously, but here, they have a Billecart-Salmon rosé waiting for her when she arrives. She’s on first-name basis with most of the waitstaff, and that’s how she immediately notices the new girl.

She’s young - Blake’s age, probably. Most of the women wear ponytails like it’s part of the uniform, but _her_ hair is loose, spun gold. It would be a crime to tie it back, Blake thinks. Stray pieces frame her face, soft and curling. She’s dressed the same as the other servers; button-down white shirt, black tie, dark slacks. Nondescript. But when Blake watches her move behind the counter, her cheeks flush pink with jealousy. (Is it jealousy?) She could never look like that.

Blake sips her drink, crossing her legs, elbows resting on the polished redwood of her usual table. The black scalloped-edge dress is maybe a little too short; her upper thighs are sticking to the leather chair. Her fingernails tap against the stem of the glass. Until Velvet pops up beside her, grinning mischievously, she doesn’t even realize she’s doing anything weird.

“Miss Belladonna.” Velvet’s worked at Off the Record for a couple years now - even before Blake could drink, she’d come here for family dinners sometimes. “Drinking alone tonight? Are you okay?”

“I’m not even drinking that-” _Much_ , Blake finishes inside her head, blinking in surprise down at her glass. Which is empty. “Oh. What the hell?”

“You seem pretty distracted tonight.” Velvet is still smiling. There are layers to that smile that Blake doesn’t even want to contemplate. “Where’s Weiss?”

She doesn’t even hear the question. “You hired somebody new, huh?”

“Sure did. One of my college friends. Want to meet her?”

“I-” Blake’s brain is short-circuiting. She doesn’t even have time to come up with an excuse before Velvet’s waving the girl over. 

(And really, why does she even _need_ an excuse? She’s the First Daughter. She meets new people every week. Often they’re extremely good looking.

Maybe not quite _this_ good-looking.)

“Yang, I wanted you to meet somebody,” Velvet’s saying as the girl gets closer. She tosses her golden hair confidently and it tumbles down her back in waves; somehow, from ten feet away, Blake can smell her citrus shampoo. Her fist clenches against the empty champagne flute. “Blake, this is Yang Xiao Long - we just hired her last week. Summer job. She just graduated from Maryland. Yang, this is…”

There’s a heartbeat-long pause; their eyes meet. Blake sucks in a breath. She thinks of rain on lavender, of stained glass, of warm setting sunlight illuminating a garden. The girl gasps, just soft enough that Blake imagines it rather than hears it. 

_She feels it too_ , Blake thinks immediately with a rush of excitement she can’t explain, an elation almost like relief - but no, no, of course she doesn’t. This girl recognizes her. Probably from People magazine or MSNBC or, you know, Wikipedia.

“...Blake,” Velvet finishes. _Belladonna_ goes unsaid.

For another long moment, Yang’s lips are parted. She doesn’t wear lipstick like some of the other waitresses do, just tinted chapstick, and before Blake catches herself, she wonders how she tastes.

“Nice to meet you,” Yang finally manages. Her voice is lower than Blake expected. 

“Blake and her friends come here a lot,” Velvet continues in her lilting accent, and Blake understands this as a test; Yang’s job probably hangs in the balance, depending on how she responds. “You know, Weiss Schnee, Pyrrha Nikos…”

The socialite and the congressman’s daughter. Everybody knows their names. But Yang’s face is impassive, blandly polite.

“That’s great,” she says. “I’d never been to Off the Record before I started working here - it’s a little out of my budget. But the food’s delicious. I can see why you and your friends enjoy it.”

Blake just stares at her.

“Would you like to order anything now?” Yang continues politely, folding her hands in front of her body, fingers intertwining. “Hors d’oeuvres, maybe? The charcuterie is my favorite.”

“Um,” Blake says. Her voice comes out jagged, like she’s half-awake. “Not right now. Thanks, though.”

“My pleasure. I’ll stop by again after you’ve had some time to decide.” She gives Blake a wide smile. Years of being in the public eye set off Blake’s internal alarms: _fake, fake, fake._

She’s gone, but Blake swears the scent of her shampoo hangs in the air. Over the whisper of classical music and the soft sound of silverware scraping plates, one phrase floats into her mind, a will o’ the wisp: _departure from this existence alone_.

Her phone vibrates in her lap, jolting her back to the present. In a stunning twist of events, Weiss is running late, so she hasn’t even picked up Pyrrha yet.

 _No problem_ , Blake texts back and tucks the phone into her purse. Trying not to attract attention, she pushes her chair back from the table. One table over, Yatsuhashi also stands.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” she sighs. “Please don’t wait outside the door, it’s so mortifying.”

“You got it.” He sits back down, pretending to study the menu.

All she wants is to splash some cold water on her face and maybe pop an Advil. Usually alcohol doesn’t go straight to her head like this, but something’s off tonight - everything’s off. Lavender eyes, dark lashes, charcoal, suntanned skin and freckles, hair tangled between her fingers-

“ _Stop_ ,” she hisses to herself, stomping down the narrow hallway that leads to the restroom. Her mother would be horrified if she saw it; Blake had been eight years old when she learned how to walk in shoes like this, _heel toe, heel toe._ “You’re being-”

“-totally crazy!” a voice exclaims from behind a closed door. The kitchen. Blake freezes, one hand skimming along the faded Victorian wallpaper. Her back flattens against the wall automatically. “I’m just supposed to go out there and serve… I don’t know… pan-seared Atlantic fucking salmon to _Blake motherfucking Belladonna_?”

Blake covers her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. Apparently this is the real Yang.

“Treat her like every other customer,” Velvet says, her voice low and calming in contrast to Yang’s hysteria. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. If you want to work here - Yang, we have members of the high-profile Washington elite dining in here all the time.”

“I can handle pussy-ass bitches like…” She rattles off a list of horrible politicians Blake happens to loathe, which only makes her laugh harder. “Y’know, the old white guys. I can be fake to them. But… but Blake Belladonna…”

“For starters, you should probably call her by her first name.”

“Oh god.” Yang sounds genuinely horrified. “I can’t do that. Can I do that? Will her security, like, jump me?”

“Yang, she comes here to be herself. First Families are interesting, you know. They don’t ask for the spotlight, especially the children. In all the time she’s been coming here, do you think she’s asked for special treatment?”

“Ugh, you’re telling me she’s famous, rich, hot, _and_ humble?” Yang groans. “I quit.”

“Yang,” Velvet says, laughing openly now. “No, you don’t. Remember the post-graduation meltdown about how badly you needed money, and how I got you the interview here out of the goodness of my heart? And how I promised my boss that you’d kick the bad posture habit, and the short fuse habit, and the swearing habit…”

“Blah, blah, blah.”

“Good comeback.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t fucking _focus_ because _Blake Belladonna_ is waiting for me to bring her a crudité platter.”

“Actually, she hasn’t ordered anyth-”

“Look, can I quit for like, a night? Put my employment on hiatus or something? I don’t know if I can do this.”

Something heavy settles in Blake’s stomach. Something familiar. A weight around her heart, a cast-iron burden that never lets her go. She turns on her heel and walks back to the table. Gradually, her thoughts unfog themselves, but they’re replaced with something different. Something worse.

“Where’d you go?” Weiss is waiting at the table, ankles crossed neatly, tapping an imaginary watch on her slender wrist. Pyrrha’s next to her, already drinking a martini; she gives Blake a little wave and smiles.

“Some girl was lusting after me,” Blake says, letting her disappointment snarl around the words. “Their new waitress.”

“Was she pretty?” Pyrrha asks unhelpfully.

“Irrelevant,” Weiss snaps. “Blake doesn’t like people who treat her like she’s some museum exhibit or…”

“Zoo animal,” Blake offers, reaching for her champagne glass before remembering that it’s been drained of every last drop. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Pyrrha, you and Jaune are all moved into the new place, right? What’s it like?”

They lapse into comfortable conversation, and Yang never comes back to the table. A bland brunette girl takes their order. Blake pretends to be relieved.

*

It’s almost eleven when they go their separate ways. There’s some kind of mix-up with Blake’s car, so she hugs her friends and watches them head off to the valet, then paces around the lobby while Yatsuhashi mumbles into his earpiece. She definitely ordered more glasses of the rosé than she’d meant to, but whatever. It’s a Friday. It’s not like she has anything important to do tomorrow. Or ever.

That’s what she’s thinking when she glances up, pulling her tangled dark hair over one shoulder, and meets Yang’s eyes across the room.

For some reason, she’s changed into a different outfit; it takes a minute for it to register that these are probably her real clothes, street clothes she wears to get to work before changing into the crisp black and white attire. Her tank top is burnt orange and stretched across her chest, and her jeans are ripped at the knee, the kind Blake used to wear back when that kind of thing was no big deal. She’s midway through tugging on a leather jacket, clutching a black Jansport backpack in one hand.

They just stare. Then Blake crosses the lobby - it’s empty this late at night, just hotel staff who are used to people like her, who won’t bat an eye. This particular place prides itself on being discreet. No one looks over their shoulders when First Daughter Blake Belladonna marches straight up to the cocktail waitress on her way home from work and presses her palm against the girl’s cheek. Yang sucks in a breath, lilac eyes huge in wonder.

“If I were sober, I would never say this,” Blake starts, the words tumbling from her lips before she can catch them, _this is a terrible idea what the hell are you doing._ “But I think we should talk.”

Yang’s hand flutters at her side like she wants to raise it, press it against Blake’s, but thinks better of it. 

“Talk about what?” she asks, steady. 

“Do you even _know_ how many people want to fuck me just because I’m famous and pretty?” No way to stop it. “And do you know how many times I just shrug it off? My whole college career, that’s all it ever was.”

“Okay…” Yang’s eyes dart around the lobby like she’s looking for snipers trained on her. “Look, you’re kinda drunk, and I’m stone sober, so…”

“Then maybe we should drink together.”

“Sorry, but I don’t really think that’s such a good-”

“People wanted me constantly, but I never cared. Look, you’re not listening. I don’t think you’re getting it. I _never_ cared.” Blake lets her hand fall away, skimming Yang’s jawline, fingers ghosting across her pulse. “Until you.”

“We - um, we just met.”

Lavender, wet grass against her back and Marc Jacobs Daisy perfume, guitar strings under her fingertips, moonlight spilling over valleys.

Blake barely speaks, a whisper, leaning in. “I think we both know that’s not true.”

“Blake,” Yang says, like she’s trying out the name, a new taste on her tongue. “You’re so angry.” 

She doesn’t seem phased by Blake; not like some of the college kids who hit on her, the ones who talked a big game but backed off the second Blake expressed some kind of interest. Everybody thinks they want to date someone as famous as her until they really get the chance.

“I’m not _angry,_ I’m just…”

“No, I don’t mean right now.” She’s still watching Blake, lilac eyes thoughtful. Hands on her hips, head cocked to the side. Waves of gold tumble down her back. “You’re angrier than I ever realized. Whenever I see you on TV or whatever… you seem so different.”

Blake bites her lip, eyes dropping to the floor, to her crystal-embellished Manolo Blahniks. “I mean, I have to be careful in front of all those cameras. Say the wrong thing and the entire world will pick you apart. I’m not a minor anymore either, so I’m fair game. Tabloids, _Saturday Night Live_ …”

“Do you ever wish you could do more? Like, say more?”

“All the time,” Blake admits, before she catches herself - she doesn’t open up to strangers or acquaintances, especially people who only hang around because she’s… what were Yang’s words? _Famous. Rich. Hot. Humble._ Like she’s goddamn Princess Diana or something. “I overheard you talking to Velvet earlier in the restaurant. About… about me.”

Yang raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t say a word.

“It just… I guess it hurt my feelings,” Blake continues. “I don’t like it when people freak out over me like I’m someone special. Like I’ve done special things. Because I haven’t, you know? I was just born into the right family. My entire life is just happenstance.”

“I didn’t mean for you - well, I wish you hadn’t heard me say all that. My life is boring, and I thought it was… cool that you were here, I guess.” Yang takes a step closer, the distance between them barely a foot. Blake’s heartbeat kicks up. Security’s definitely watching her; any minute now the car will pull up outside and she’ll never have to see this girl again.

That’s what she should want, really. To never see Yang again. But.

“I know we don’t know each other,” Yang says, voice low. “But I just feel like…”

Blake waits, but the end of that sentence never comes. She can’t stand the silence any longer.

“If you maybe wanted to hang out…”

Yang’s eyes sparkle, full lips pressed into a surprised smile. “You really think that’s a good idea? I could be crazy or something.”

“Oh, I already know that you’re crazy,” Blake says, turning on her heel before she can see Yang’s expression change, and walks right over to the concierge.

*

The best suite in the hotel is theirs. 

Everything is crisp white and cream and gold: a plush sofa covered in decorative pillows, floor-to-ceiling floral curtains, ornate golden lamps and framed mirrors. One enormous window looks out over Lafayette Park, currently midnight black, city lights lining the horizon in flickering silver. There’s a bottle of Dom Perignon resting in an ice bucket on top of a wooden writing table. The second Blake opens the door, Yang kicks off her Vans, lining them neatly by the wall.

“What are you doing?” Blake asks, amused.

“Like I can walk on this carpet with my shoes on.” Yang snaps a hair tie around her wrist, tugging it off, pulling her wavy hair back into a high ponytail. “Probably cost more than my entire year’s rent.”

“Where do you live, anyway?”

“God, the _questioning_. Are you gonna report back to the Secret Service?”

“I’m just curious.”

Yang tugs on her bangs, watching Blake carefully. She’s still standing by the doorway like she might be asked to leave at any moment. “Clarendon. It’s kinda ugly and I have to take the metro everywhere, but hey, I finally got away from home. Plus my little sister goes to American, so I’m not far away if she needs me. Look, that champagne, dude - did you order it?”

“What?” Blake turns, following Yang’s gaze. Honestly, she’s barely registered its appearance. “Nah, it just showed up. People do stuff like that.”

“But this hotel room… I don’t have a ton of money, but like, can I Venmo you or something?”

“What the hell is that?” Blake asks, grabbing two glasses and a bottle opener from the desk. “Is it slang for something?”

Yang laughs, but Blake doesn’t miss the tense set of her shoulders. “You really are cut off from reality, huh?”

“You have no idea.” She pops the cork expertly, catching the foam in a glass, filling both to the brim. “Look, you know how some people probably dream about… I don’t know, winning the lottery? Competing in the Olympics?”

“Drinking champagne with Blake Belladonna?” Yang offers, accepting the glass.

“Yeah. You know what I dream about?”

“What?”

“Opening a window.”

Yang takes a long swig of her drink, swallows, wipes the back of her hand across her mouth, and then asks, “excuse me?”

“We’re not allowed to open windows.”

“But just in the official rooms, right? In your bedroom…”

Blake shakes her head. “No windows.” 

“Even on a really nice day? During cherry blossom season?” Yang smirks around her glass, and her shoulders loosen. Somehow Blake’s getting more sober by the second, Yang’s presence washing over her, sunlit and calm. That’s not good. Clarity’s never good for her.

“Never ever. Seriously, just having fresh air would be amazing. All my college dorm rooms had to have bars fitted on them.” She makes a face, settling onto the couch, patting the cushion next to her. Yang sinks down, elbows resting on her knees. “Totally fucked up the view.”

“Well, yeah, that sucks. But it can’t _all_ be bad, right? You must know all kinds of crazy shit.”

Blake laughs, sipping her drink. “Like what?”

“That briefcase that the Secret Service carries all the time - what the hell’s it called? The basketball?”

“Oh yeah. The Football.”

“I read somewhere that it has the nuclear codes inside.” Yang’s eyes flash, excited. “That’s legit, right?”

“If I told you,” Blake says, low, leaning so her lips brush the edge of Yang’s ear, catching on a strand of golden hair, “I’d have to kill you.” She feels Yang shiver against her just slightly, and waits in the moment before admitting, “and also, I don’t know.”

“You’re funnier than I thought,” Yang said, and she’s so close, she’s still so close. “Do they not let you be funny?”

“They don’t let me be anything.” 

Blake hates being pitied. _Hates_ it. But Yang’s eyes glisten when she looks at her, and nobody looks like that, nobody real. She takes a breath, long and slow.

“If I were drunker…” Blake starts, fidgeting with the hem of her dress.

“Go on.” Yang smirks.

“If I were drunker, I would probably…”

Silence, golden light; down below, sirens and brakes and far-off distant voices. Yang’s the one who breaks it. 

She leans so close that her lips skim Blake’s, that when she whispers something unintelligible, Blake can feel it, taste her. One hand rises and touches Yang’s hair, almost automatically. She twines her fingers through the soft strands, gentle at first, twisting, then harder, pulling her in. Their lips meet in a kiss that’s hard and fast and sure, and all Blake can think is _I don’t do this, I never do this_.

They break apart, gasping, long enough for Blake to pant, “I never do stuff like this.”

“Never?” Yang grins devilishly, eyes flashing with some mixture of desire and disbelief. “That’s-”

“Stop it with the commentary,” Blake snaps, and they both laugh, lips meeting and breaking apart, breathless, and how have they not known each other their whole lives, how is this brand new? Yang’s lips trail down her neck, alternating between biting her gently and sucking, drawing out Blake’s stuttered breaths. Then she digs her teeth in harder just below Blake’s collarbone, and her laugh turns into a low moan; Yang surges toward her, arms catching around her waist. 

Dimly, Blake’s aware that one strap of her dress is hanging off her shoulder, baring her skin. Yang touches her everywhere and Blake doesn’t even consider stopping her, not for a moment. But something’s still tugging at the back of her subconscious-

“You’re only… doing this because I’m…” she gasps, trying desperately to catch her breath as Yang’s fingertips trail up her thighs, dangerously close to the hem of her black satin dress.

Yang’s voice is soft against her ear, gentle. “I’m doing this because you’re beautiful,” she says, and Blake believes her implicitly, like the tide believes in the pull of the moon. “And because I want you to be happy.”

“You don’t even know me.” Blake tangles her hands in Yang’s hair, tilting her own head back so that Yang can skim her lips down Blake’s neck to her cleavage; bruises trail like constellations. A problem she’ll deal with later.

Yang pulls back and Blake groans at the loss of contact. It’s not a choice; her face flushes pink, not used to hearing these sounds coming out of her own mouth, but Yang’s pupils darken. She drops her jacket to the floor, then pulls her shirt over her head in one languid motion. Her bra is fancier than Blake expected, somehow, pale yellow and trimmed with white lace. Blake sighs, reaching for her again, trailing her nails up and down Yang’s stomach, muscles hard under her touch.

“Please,” she chokes out, fingernails trailing down the back of Yang’s neck, pulling her close. And she doesn’t care if anyone can hear, she doesn’t care if she gets in trouble, she doesn’t care that she barely knows this girl. She doesn’t care.

Yang’s fingers trail up Blake’s inner thighs, slow and questioning at first, and Blake can’t speak. She slides back on the couch and lets her knees fall open. Lets Yang find her wet, fingertips brushing the lace of her underwear. Blake feels like she might die with how badly she wants her; there’s an ache low in her stomach, desire that’s painful without release.

“Yang,” she whispers. “You can - I mean…”

“Tell me what you want.” Yang’s voice is barely audible; when she speaks, her lips brush Blake’s inner thigh and it feels like electricity, like wildfire. “Tell me what you want and I’ll do it for you.”

Blake swallows, throat dry. “I want your tongue inside me.”

The words are barely out of her mouth before Yang’s looping her thumbs through the band of her underwear, tugging them down, tossing them aside. She takes it slow; somehow Blake knew that she would. Her mouth moves over Blake’s hipbone, biting down, leaving marks only the two of them will see. Her fingernails scratch idly up and down Blake’s thighs. She’s soaking wet, her mind utterly consumed with wondering whether or not Yang is too.

“I swear to god, if you don’t-” Blake starts, but breaks off into a long, low moan as Yang dips her head lower to lick her cunt, tasting everything. Automatically, Blake rocks her hips, desperate; Yang breaks away just for a second to look up, smiling, lips pink and glistening, and it’s so filthy that Blake almost passes out right there on the couch.

“Cum for me, baby,” Yang says, lowering her head again, licking her in long strokes, sucking on her clit. Gasping, Blake twines a hand through Yang’s golden hair and pulls hard, harder than she means to, arching up.

It hits her all at once, wave after wave, her thigh muscles clenching, expletives spilling out of her lips in a frantic rush of whispers. Yang keeps going for what feels like hours, Blake sprawled on her back. Her dark hair is tangled and sweaty and spread across a white velvet pillow. She could probably die right now and be completely fine.

Except…

“Come here,” she practically growls, sitting up fast. The exhaustion fades away as she slides her hand between Yang’s legs and feels the heat even through her jeans, feels her heartbeat as their chests press together. She unclasps Yang’s bra and tosses it aside, leaning down to run her tongue over one nipple; only part of her brain is lucid and aware of what’s going on. Somewhere around the time that Yang arches up, hands in Blake’s hair, saying a whole string of completely dirty sentences, Blake’s mind goes into autopilot and all she can think is _finally, finally, I get what I want._

Yang kneels on the couch to pull her jeans off and Blake has her fingers inside her without waiting for her underwear to be removed; one, then two, then three, reaching deep inside, curling. Yang’s fingernails dig into Blake’s shoulders as she thrusts her hips against Blake’s hand. Hesitantly, Blake pulls away, fingers dripping; slowly, she puts them into her mouth one by one, and Yang’s expression is so beautiful it should be in museums.

They end up on the bed somehow, Yang sitting on Blake’s face, coming so hard she literally grabs the headboard and slams it against the wall. Blake’s not tired enough. Again, and again, and again, and why has she never realized how incredible it would feel to fuck a girl like Yang on crisp Egyptian cotton sheets, moonlight pouring through the window, her entire life spiraling out like diamonds before her eyes? Everything is too much. Everything is perfect.

It’s almost three in the morning when they fall asleep. Blake hasn’t checked her phone in hours, but who cares? Their limbs tangle together as they’re succumbing to exhaustion and she lets Yang run her fingers through her hair; she whispers all kinds of things that make Blake forget how to breathe, about how beautiful she is, about how she could love her, she really could, if only she will let her.

 _Maybe,_ Blake thinks. _Maybe I will let her._


End file.
